


take a devil by the hands

by thraume (ethia)



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: AU, F/M, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Rebuilding, Romance, Second Chances, Sexual exploration, Slow Burn, Smut, Trauma, Trust Issues, fic tropes: amnesia, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 12:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13411092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/thraume
Summary: With her personal memory wiped out, Katrina Cornwell wakes up in the most unlikely of places. Aided by a stranger from her past, she fights to find back to herself.WIP.E rating is for later chapters.





	take a devil by the hands

**Author's Note:**

> Since at this point the show's official plot doesn't seem to have much need for Lorca and Cornwell from our side of things, I've decided to take them out for a spin.
> 
> **Title:** _Oh Woman Oh Man_ , London Grammar
> 
> **WIP.**
> 
> AU as of _Into The Forest I Go_ , though I'm likely to incorporate bits and pieces from later episodes as I see fit.
> 
> I can't really promise regular updates, but there should be at least one new part per week; more if I keep chapters shorter. Feel free to let me know if you prefer longer chapters or more frequent updates.
> 
> POV will switch to Kat after the prologue.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.

After a little over six months, things are finally starting to feel normal again.

For a given value of normal, anyway.

As they are wont to do during night shift, Emerson's thoughts are drifting idly this way and that, while most of her focus is pinned on the small display in the arm of the captain's chair, evaluating the steady influx of information from throughout the ship.

Way too many yellow flags popping up for her liking, but then the ship's long overdue for a thorough overhaul. All the little assists by their ally's side taking a considerable toll on a vessel that's seen much better times to begin with.

But as the captain keeps pointing out, it's well worth their time and effort.

_It's quite something to have, Inger, a cause to live for._

Even though it found them at their weakest, it has left them stronger; prouder than they've ever been before.

They're making a real difference here.

It's a good thought, a sturdy source of comfort whenever that terrible yearning for home threatens to overwhelm her.

She squashes the feeling before it has any chance to take a hold in the pit of her stomach, make its inevitable rise to her chest where it would sit like an unrelenting bind around her heart for the rest of the night. A bitter thread of regret woven into her resolve to build something new, something worthwhile in this place they got stuck in.

_For pity's sake, stop wallowing, Ing._

Better to get working on that priority list for the most necessary repairs the captain has asked her for before he retired after yet another double shift.

The bridge is quiet, the night crew's small talk having petered out about an half hour ago, everyone busy with their stations now, running diagnostics and compiling reports that wouldn't fit in among the day shift's heavy workload.

“Commander.”

It doesn't take the soft lilt of Royce's Welsh accent to alert Emerson to the anomaly the ship's long range sensors have picked up on a few clicks off their course. Nevertheless, she makes a note of his vigilance, the quickness of his perception.

“I've seen it, Lieutenant.”

An energy signature, another vessel traveling through space nearby. A bit of a curiosity, this far off the beaten paths of the predominant factions warring over this particular sector.

“There's a hail coming through on the emergency subspace channel, ma'am,” Darby says from the comm station, with a ring of excitement to her usually serene voice. “Reserved for Starfleet transmissions only.”

For the first time in half a year. Dear god.

“Put it on speakers, Darby.”

“Sorry, ma'am, it's just a standard distress signal, playing on loop. Very faint, too. Perhaps if we got closer...”

Emerson knows what they're all thinking. What they all want her to do.

Won't hurt to have a quick look-see, now will it.

It's not like they're in any danger to be found out.

The captain might beg to differ, but he's soundly asleep, getting some well-earned rest.

This is her call to make.

“All right. Let's take a peek. See if this is something to bring to the captain's attention.” She rather wouldn't disturb his break, not if this isn't anywhere near as important as they're all hoping for it to be. “Set an interception course. Bring us into sensor range, shields up, nice and quiet. Silent alert only.”

“Yes, ma'am.” At the helm, Forney nods, then turns briefly to flash her a grin, his hope entirely uncurbed in his youthful face. It falters quickly, though, once they get close enough to get a clear read on the source of the energy spike that drew them here.

A small Klingon raider, adrift in space, for all appearances no more than a glorified piece of debris.

Every bit as stranded as they are.

“Do a full sensor sweep, Royce,” Emerson says, careful to keep her disappointment out of her voice.

Stupid to get her hopes up in the first place.

No one is going to come for them. Offer them a free and easy way home.

Anyway, this is home now. It's just that sometimes, the thought still needs some getting used to.

"One life sign, very weak. Probably human."

"Probably." She raises a brow at Royce, who looks back at her with a faint smile of what did you expect, we're not exactly Excelsior class anymore.

Yeah, and aren't they reminded of it at every other turn. She doesn't grin back, not really, and Royce has the decency to snap his attention to his station.

"Sorry, ma'am. Half of the sensor array is still on the fritz."

"Anything out of the ordinary? Any signs of foul play I should know about?"

"Engine's burned out, shields are down, weapons defunct. Energy levels are barely readable. Life support must be running out soon. Someone's routed what little power is left into that distress signal. Last ditch effort, looks like."

"Looks like, huh? Gotta love a harmless impression like that. All right. Let's bring her in. See what the Klingons are up to this time. Security to hangar bay two. Have a medical team on standby." Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Emerson rises from the chair, stopping briefly at the tactical station on her way to the lift. "Time to rouse the captain, I guess. You do the honors, Royce, while I get down there."

“Yes, ma'am.”

Safe in the solitude of the turbolift, Emerson allows her face to slip into a wince.

To her knowledge, the captain's not too fond of surprises. Certainly not as of late.

This had better be good.

//

“Throwing a party this late at night, Emerson?” Doctor Martell greets her with an amused little smile, far more awake than she has any right to be for having been woken no more than a few minutes ago. “What's the occasion?”

“Klingon's left a present on our doorstep,” Emerson says, and nods at the raider in the middle of the deck, surrounded by six heavily armed members of security.

“And you need me to oversee the unwrapping?”

“Someone's inside. Likely injured, for all that we know.” Watching security approach the entry hatch, Emerson drops her voice to a near whisper. “Could be one of ours.”

“Likely injured?” Trust Martell to home in on the key information. “I'd better get closer, then.”

“As soon as we know we're not dealing with a pissed off Klingon with a nasty disruptor surprise, you can.”

The slender shape security carefully carries out of the raider couldn't pose less of a threat if she tried. Emerson inhales sharply at the sight of her uniform, the familiar blue and gold of it, barely recognizable under a layer of soot and grime, the manifold tears, the large stains of clotted blood.

Oh, Jesus.

Martell beats her to the barely conscious woman, if only by a few steps. Emerson kneels by her side, swallowing thickly at the sight of the bruises on a face that's smeared with more soot and blood. But even with her heart going out to the poor creature, Emerson doesn't for a second forget her training.

Or the safety of her crew.

Gingerly, she takes a hold of the woman's shoulders, squeezing lightly, then again, until her eyes start open, wild and wide with a terror that spills over her face like a flood. With a small cry, she hoists herself up on her elbows, trying to scramble backwards.

Away from danger, another source of pain just waiting to wash over her.

“We mean you no harm.” Emerson sits back on her haunches, folding her hands in her lap, making herself small and non-threatening, her voice equal parts demanding and soft. "You're Starfleet, are you? Identify yourself."

Even with the woman's apparent distress, she can't be too cautious.

"I don't-- Who are you?" Her voice is raw, cracked, and Emerson wonders just how much she's been made to scream. How much pain she's been forced to endure.

How much strength it must take to survive in a body as battered as this.

"I'm Commander Inger Emerson of the USS Buran."

The words, this much is obvious, mean absolutely nothing to the woman breathing heavily in her barely controlled panic.

"Where am I?"

“You are on board my ship, where my first officer saw fit to bring you in an unauthorized rescue mission. At your ease, Emerson.”

Oh, crap.

She didn't even hear the captain coming, and her half-hearted attempt at snapping to attention doesn't seem to lift his mood a bit.

Should have known better.

“Sir, she appears to be Starfleet.”

“Appearances are just that, Number One.” There's a softness to his voice that can't stem entirely from sleep; he sounds lenient, and with a rush of relief, Emerson realizes that despite his stern entry, he approves of what she did, if not of her way of going about it. “Now let me see for myself.”

He kneels with a grunt, hissing when he leans around Emerson to get his first good look at the woman holding herself up by sheer force of will. To her, prone and panicked as she is, the captain must seem like a giant, a towering presence to further intimidate her.

But despite Emerson's misgivings, their fugitive remains in place, enduring the captain's scrutiny with a look of defiance on her face, a gleam of spite in her eyes. Her indomitable will to survive in evidence even as she's so helplessly at their mercy.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

At the sound of her voice, the captain makes a pained sound, somewhere in between a gasp and a sob, scrambling forward to run a hand over that sooty, bruised face.

“Dear god, Kat, is that really you? How did you-- Easy. It's me. Gabriel. Don't you recognize me? Oh, god, Kat. I'm so sorry, I--"

With a yelp, she recoils from his touch, wincing in pain as she scoots away from him, clutching at her chest, a spring of tears trickling over her bloodied cheeks.

“Stay away from me. Don't touch me. Don't, don't, just don't, please...”

Her voice gives out as her strength leaves her and she sags into the waiting curl of Martell's arms, all fight having gone out of her. She gasps, a heaving, shuddering breath, before she relaxes into the soft curl of Martell's embrace, a picture of defeat. "That's it. Everybody step away. You're crowding my patient."

If he weren't kneeling so close to her, Emerson wouldn't ever know about the small trembles running through her captain's frame, the shock of seeing this woman he's so obviously familiar with, even if she seems to have lost all memory of who he is. Of who she herself has been up until now, before something terrible must have robbed her of her sense of self.

For a moment, Emerson can't help but feel sorry for the both of them, for the captain who's tided her so steadily over the past six months, never once wavering, and even more for the poor soul washed up in a dreadful state on these shores with them.

But then good sense returns, and she helps her captain to his feet, subtly steadying him as they rise in unison, the small, furtive brush of her hand over his arm the only comfort she can offer him here.

With the half-conscious woman cradled to her, Martell scowls at them. “I suggest we attempt to sort out this mess once I've got my patient safe and sound in sickbay. You may come consult with me in a few hours, Captain Lorca. And no sooner than that, or I'll have you thrown out, captain or not. Computer, emergency site-to-site transport for two to sickbay.”

“Understood, Doctor.”

In all their time on this ship together, Emerson has never heard a tone like this in her captain's voice.

It sounds exactly like the despair she sometimes feels crawling up on her in the middle of the night.

The kind of bottomless feeling that only the heated press of another body over hers can chase away for a while.

Something tells her that won't be anywhere near enough of a comfort to her captain anymore.


End file.
